


And All My Stumbling Phrases

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Geralt Finally Manages to Apologize, In His Own Emotionally Stunted Way, It's Fluffy By The Show Standards Let's Put It That Way, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Not Sure If This is Truly Fluff, Set Vaguely Post 1x06, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22745815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: Geralt may not know how to say things, but that doesn't mean he can't find a way to use his words.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 84
Kudos: 1356
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	And All My Stumbling Phrases

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from "All This and Heaven Too" by Florence + the Machine which, if you ask me, perfectly describes Geralt trying to discuss his emotions.

It’s warm, comfortingly so, although Geralt wouldn’t go so far as to say that out loud. He can stand higher temperatures than humans, which is why he usually has to cast Igni before he gets into a bath so that it’s actually as hot as he wants it to be. This is probably encroaching a bit on the too-warm side for Jaskier, but the bard is far from complaining, and Geralt sure isn’t going to be the one to say anything. Not when the combination of the firelight and the thin sheen of sweat on Jaskier’s body is making him glow, just a little. If one were so inclined to look at it that way.

Geralt might be so inclined.

Not, again, as though he’d say that out loud. The bard’s fool head is big enough already, thanks.

The bed’s not big enough for both of them to sprawl out—beds never are in taverns—so Geralt’s on his side, propped up by his arm, while Jaskier’s on his stomach, eyes closed, breathing deep and even.

He’s not asleep, but he’s close to it. It’s one of the rare times Jaskier actually shuts up.

“You know…”

Ah, spoke too soon.

“…you never did actually say you were sorry.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows and thinks back over the last bit of the evening. There was running into Jaskier in the tavern. There was feeling a fuckton of guilt, which he’d already been feeling but which spiked unpleasantly, like poison, when he and Jaskier had locked eyes. There was an argument, where Jaskier did most of the yelling, bringing up some points that were… well, fair, Geralt could admit that they were fair, and he deserved to be called things like _stubborn_ and _bullheaded_ and _emotionally constipated_.

Then there’d been the kissing.

Geralt’s still not sure how that happened.

Not that he’s complaining about it happening. There was a time when no matter how much Jaskier wanted it, he wouldn’t have done it. Jaskier was young, when they met, a child, still, full of sunlight while Geralt was made of storm clouds and shadows. But Jaskier’s older, now, old enough that if he’s going to make a mistake like this, he’s had years to realize what a monumental one it is—and Geralt’s found that while Jaskier is fair-weather about the small things, he’s remarkably steadfast and loyal (and stubborn as a gods damned mule) about the big things.

One of those big things, apparently, being Geralt.

Geralt tries not to think about it too hard. Tries not to look at it. It’s like the sun, blinding. He doesn’t know what to do with the hot, soft feeling in his chest, and it’s the one thing that still seems capable of terrifying him in a world where unholy monsters are just all in a day’s work.

But, yes. Kissing. There had definitely been that. Whether he started it in order to shut Jaskier up and convey some—some semblance of the deep and soft and terrible thing he feels when he looks at him, or whether Jaskier had started it to try and get it through Geralt’s thick skull (Jaskier’s words, not his) that Jaskier’s not going anywhere and he will, ultimately, forgive Geralt all manner of idiocy, he doesn’t know. But there was kissing.

Quite a lot of it, in fact.

He distinctly recalls picking Jaskier up and slamming him against the wall, because he’s wanted to do that for some time, even if he’ll never say it out loud because that would mean he’ll have to admit he’s had… _fantasies_ … about Jaskier and he would rather be hanged. Or swallowed by a selkiemore again.

They fucked against the wall, that first time, since they were both a bit impatient. He’s still dizzy when he thinks about it, the noises Jaskier made and the hot clench around him, the sweet, mouthwatering smell of lust like sizzling pork—

After the wall, there was the bed. Then the bed again.

And now they’re here.

Huh. Jaskier’s right. There was never actually an apology, so to speak, in that whole business. Not directly, anyway. Not in so many words. Geralt likes to think that he’s made his devotion, and his contrition, quite clear in the kisses he’s pressed to Jaskier’s skin, the bruises his fingertips have left on the other man’s hips, the notched teeth marks he’s indented into Jaskier’s shoulder.

But maybe Jaskier does want the actual words.

He’d say them, if he could. If they didn’t stick in his throat. Make him sick.

Jaskier doesn’t seem all that upset, though. His scent is still thick and warm, like freshly baked bread, the scent of contentment. His eyes are closed, and he isn’t even moving, just laid out heavily on the bed.

“Just pointing it out,” Jaskier goes on, his voice quiet and words a bit slurred. “Maybe that’s why you were biting me so much, were you trying to spell out _I’m sorry_ with your teeth? I know I named you the White Wolf but I wasn’t aware you were going to take it so literally and chomp on me…”

Geralt would like to point out, for the record, that Jaskier was far from complaining about this biting during sex. In fact, he had said something along the lines of _oh fuck yes so good yes_.

He reaches out with his free hand, his heart hammering in his chest, and begins to trace, carefully, along the slick span of Jaskier’s back.

It takes a moment. Jaskier’s brow furrows, and then his eyebrows raise in recognition. “If you’re spelling out ‘arse’, Geralt…”

He’s not.

_I… a… m…_

He hears Jaskier’s breath catch as he starts the next word. Jaskier’s smart, works with words for a living, so of course he’s figured it out quickly.

Geralt pauses after the third word, pressing his palm to the small of Jaskier’s back, and just basks in the smell of him, the sound of him breathing. Gods above, he knows he can never guarantee Jaskier’s safety. He can never promise Jaskier riches, or a comfortable life, or a peaceful end. No matter how much he might wish to. But it’s Jaskier’s choice to make, one that Jaskier has made over and over, and right here—in this moment—Jaskier is safe. He’s happy. And Geralt made him that way.

He starts tracing new letters.

_I… l… o…_

Jaskier is still, so still that Geralt suspects he’s holding his breath, until it’s over. “You didn’t have to say that,” he whispers. No human would be able to hear that whisper, but Geralt can.

“I’ve recently been informed that somebody’s been announcing their love for me up and down the Continent. In song form.” Which is annoying, both by its nature and because it took him so damn long to realize.

“Well, of course. Bards always declare their love for their muses.” Jaskier shuffles closer, until he can rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder, right in the crook between his neck and elbow where Geralt’s keeping himself propped up. “But you tell me, Geralt. Gods, that was why it was so frustrating. The mountain.”

Ah, yes. Geralt would like to just never talk about that whole day ever again, thanks.

“You protect me. You give me your gear to wear when I get cold. You pay for dinner and you let me use the bath first even though you like the water hotter than I do and…” Jaskier yawns, then absently kisses Geralt’s neck. “…and you’re usually dirtier than I am. I know, Geralt. I knew before. It was…” Another yawn. “…you refusing to admit it that upset me so.”

“I didn’t know.” How could Jaskier know, when he himself didn’t, not until it had been two weeks and the silence was oppressing and he found himself missing Jaskier even more than Yennefer?

“Yennefer told me about the djinn. What you said. What you did for me.” Jaskier’s lips curl upwards in a tiny smile. “That’s when I knew.”

Geralt traces more things into Jaskier’s back. Not letters. Just lazy patterns. Childish drawings that spring into his head.

“Me, too,” Jaskier says, after Geralt’s started to think he’s fallen asleep. “You know. In case you were in doubt.”

Geralt turns them so that Jaskier can rest on his chest, leech off Geralt’s warmth the way he knows the man is dying to. He doesn’t pull the blanket up just yet—it’s still too warm for that, the fire still too high—and rests his hand on Jaskier’s back as Jaskier finally, truly falls into slumber.

He wasn’t in doubt. Not for a moment. And he pretends that the words he’s written aren’t done in cooling sweat and invisible ink, but in gold, in magic, in swirls of black, where they will sink into Jaskier’s skin and fuse with his blood and bones, singing in him always and clear as day when he looks in the mirror—so that Jaskier will always _know_.

But he suspects that Jaskier will always know anyway.


End file.
